The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

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"Eh! I never thought of him not bringin' 'em. He'dbe sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshire.He's such a trusty lad."

Mary was afraid that she might begin to askdifficult questions, but she did not. She was verymuch interested in the seeds and gardening tools,and there was only one moment when Mary was frightened.This was when she began to ask where the flowers were to beplanted.

"I've never seen him," said Mary. "I've only seenundergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff."

"If I was you, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha."He's not half as bad as he looks, for all he's so crabbed.Mr. Craven lets him do what he likes because he was herewhen Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laugh.She liked him. Perhaps he'd find you a corner somewhere out o'the way."

"If it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no onecould mind my having it, could they?" Mary said anxiously.

"There wouldn't be no reason," answered Martha."You wouldn't do no harm."

Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when sherose from the table she was going to run to her roomto put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her.

"I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thoughtI'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came backthis mornin' and I think he wants to see you."

Mary turned quite pale.

"Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't want to see me when I came.I heard Pitcher say he didn't." "Well," explained Martha,"Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mother. She was walkin'to Thwaite village an' she met him. She'd never spoketo him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottagetwo or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an'she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she saidto him about you but she said somethin' as put him in th'mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow."

"Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away tomorrow? I am so glad!"

"He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't come back tillautumn or winter. He's goin' to travel in foreign places.He's always doin' it."

"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfully.

If he did not come back until winter, or even autumn,there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive.Even if he found out then and took it away from her shewould have had that much at least.

"When do you think he will want to see--"

She did not finish the sentence, because the door opened,and Mrs. Medlock walked in. She had on her best blackdress and cap, and her collar was fastened with alarge brooch with a picture of a man's face on it.It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had diedyears ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up.She looked nervous and excited.

"Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go andbrush it. Martha, help her to slip on her best dress.Mr. Craven sent me to bring her to him in his study."

All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her heart began tothump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain,silent child again. She did not even answer Mrs. Medlock,but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by Martha.She said nothing while her dress was changed, and herhair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followedMrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was therefor her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Cravenand he would not like her, and she would not like him.She knew what he would think of her.

She was taken to a part of the house she had not beeninto before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door,and when some one said, "Come in," they entered theroom together. A man was sitting in an armchair beforethe fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him.

"This is Miss Mary, sir," she said.

"You can go and leave her here. I will ring for youwhen I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven.

When she went out and closed the door, Mary could onlystand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thinhands together. She could see that the man in thechair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high,rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streakedwith white. He turned his head over his high shouldersand spoke to her.

"Come here!" he said.

Mary went to him.

He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if ithad not been so miserable. He looked as if the sightof her worried and fretted him and as if he did not knowwhat in the world to do with her.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mary.

"Do they take good care of you?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.

"You are very thin," he said.

"I am getting fatter," Mary answered in what she knewwas her stiffest way.

What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if theyscarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else,and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her.

"I forgot you," he said. "How could I remember you? Iintended to send you a governess or a nurse, or someone of that sort, but I forgot."

"Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lumpin her throat choked her.

"What do you want to say?" he inquired.

"I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary."And please--please don't make me have a governess yet."

He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.

"That was what the Sowerby woman said," he mutteredabsentmindedly.

Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage.

"Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she stammered.

"Yes, I think so," he replied.

"She knows about children," said Mary. "She has twelve.She knows."

He seemed to rouse himself.

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to play out of doors," Mary answered, hoping thather voice did not tremble. "I never liked it in India.It makes me hungry here, and I am getting fatter."

He was watching her.

"Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good. Perhaps it will,"he said. "She thought you had better get stronger beforeyou had a governess."

"It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comesover the moor," argued Mary.

"Where do you play?" he asked next.

"Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent mea skipping-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to seeif things are beginning to stick up out of the earth.I don't do any harm."

"Don't look so frightened," he said in a worried voice."You could not do any harm, a child like you! You may dowhat you like."

Mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraidhe might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it.She came a step nearer to him.

"May I?" she said tremulously.

Her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever.

"Don't look so frightened," he exclaimed. "Of course you may.I am your guardian, though I am a poor one for any child.I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill,and wretched and distracted; but I wish you to be happyand comfortable. I don't know anything about children,but Mrs. Medlock is to see that you have all you need.I sent for you to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said Iought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you.She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and runningabout."

"She knows all about children," Mary said again in spiteof herself.

"She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her ratherbold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Cravenhad been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speakhis dead wife's name. "She is a respectable woman.Now I have seen you I think she said sensible things.Play out of doors as much as you like. It's a big placeand you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like.Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought hadstruck him. "Do you want toys, books, dolls?"

"Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?"

In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the wordswould sound and that they were not the ones she had meantto say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.

He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quicklyover his eyes.

"Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly.

"I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I wasalways ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimesmade littlebeds in the sand and stuck flowers in them.But here it is different."

Mr. Craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room.

"A bit of earth," he said to himself, and Mary thoughtthat somehow she must have reminded him of something.When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almostsoft and kind.

"You can have as much earth as you want," he said."You remind me of some one else who loved the earth andthings that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want,"with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make itcome alive."

"May I take it from anywhere--if it's not wanted?"

"Anywhere," he answered. "There! You must go now,I am tired." He touched the bell to call Mrs. Medlock."Good-by. I shall be away all summer."

Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary thought she musthave been waiting in the corridor.

"Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I haveseen the child I understand what Mrs. Sowerby meant.She must be less delicate before she begins lessons.Give her simple, healthy food. Let her run wild inthe garden. Don't look after her too much. She needsliberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerbyis to come and see her now and then and she may sometimesgo to the cottage."

Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved tohear that she need not "look after" Mary too much.She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seenas little of her as she dared. In addition to thisshe was fond of Martha's mother.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went toschool together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a womanas you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any childrenmyself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthieror better ones. Miss Mary can get no harm from them.I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself.She's what you might call healthy-minded--if you understand me."

When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridorMary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there.Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removedthe dinner service.

"I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have itwhere I like! I am not going to have a governessfor a long time! Your mother is coming to see meand I may go to your cottage! He says a little girllike me could not do any harm and I may do what Ilike--anywhere!"

"Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of himwasn't it?"

"Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man,only his face is so miserable and his forehead is alldrawn together."

She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She hadbeen away so much longer than she had thought she shouldand she knew Dickon would have to set out early on hisfive-mile walk. When she slipped through the door underthe ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him.The gardening tools were laid together under a tree.She ran to them, looking all round the place, but therewas no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secretgarden was empty--except for the robin who had just flownacross the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her."He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--washe only a wood fairy?"

Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caughther eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was apiece of the letter she had printed for Martha to sendto Dickon. It was fastened on the bush with a long thorn,and in a minute she knew Dickon had left it there.There were some roughly printed letters on it and a sortof picture. At first she could not tell what it was.Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sittingon it. Underneath were the printed letters and theysaid:

"I will cum bak."

CHAPTER XIII

"I AM COLIN"

Mary took the picture back to the house when she wentto her supper and she showed it to Martha.

"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew ourDickon was as clever as that. That there's a pictureof a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an'twice as natural."

Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message.He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!

She hoped he would come back the very next day and shefell asleep looking forward to the morning.

But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire,particularly in the springtime. She was awakened inthe night by the sound of rain beating with heavy dropsagainst her window. It was pouring down in torrentsand the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and inthe chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bedand felt miserable and angry.

"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said."It came because it knew I did not want it."

She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face.She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of theheavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering."She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kepther awake because she felt mournful herself. If she hadfelt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured downand beat against the pane!

"It sounds just like a person lost on the moorand wandering on and on crying," she said.

She had been lying awake turning from side to sidefor about an hour, when suddenly something made her situp in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.She listened and she listened.

"It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper."That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying Iheard before."

The door of her room was ajar and the sound came downthe corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.She listened for a few minutes and each minute she becamemore and more sure. She felt as if she must find outwhat it was. It seemed even stranger than the secretgarden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that shewas in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her footout of bed and stood on the floor.

"I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody isin bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!"

There was a candle by her bedside and she took it upand went softly out of the room. The corridor lookedvery long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.She thought she remembered the corners she must turnto find the short corridor with the door covered withtapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the dayshe lost herself. The sound had come up that passage.So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way,her heart beating so loud that she fancied she couldhear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led her.Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again.Was this the right corner to turn? She stopped and thought.Yes it was. Down this passage and then to the left,and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.Yes, there was the tapestry door.

She pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her,and she stood in the corridor and could hear the cryingquite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the otherside of the wall at her left and a few yards farther onthere was a door. She could see a glimmer of light comingfrom beneath it. The Someone was crying in that room,and it was quite a young Someone.

So she walked to the door and pushed it open, and thereshe was standing in the room!

It was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it.There was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and anight light burning by the side of a carved four-postedbed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy,crying fretfully.

Mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she hadfallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it.

The boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivoryand he seemed to have eyes too big for it. He hadalso a lot of hair which tumbled over his foreheadin heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller.He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was cryingmore as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain.

Mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand,holding her breath. Then she crept across the room, and,as she drew nearer, the light attracted the boy's attentionand he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her,his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense.

"Who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper."Are you a ghost?"

"Come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyesfixed on her with an anxious expression.

She came close to the bed and he put out his handand touched her.

"You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such realdreams very often. You might be one of them."

Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she lefther room and she put a piece of it between his fingers.

"Rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said."I will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how realI am. For a minute I thought you might be a dream too."

"Where did you come from?" he asked.

"From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't goto sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to findout who it was. What were you crying for?"

"Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached.Tell me your name again."

"Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had cometo live here?"

He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but hebegan to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.

"No," he answered. "They daren't."

"Why?" asked Mary.

"Because I should have been afraid you would see me.I won't let people see me and talk me over."

"Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.

"Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down.My father won't let people talk me over either.The servants are not allowed to speak about me.If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan't live.My father hates to think I may be like him."

"Oh, what a queer house this is!" Mary said."What a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret.Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you!Have you been locked up?"

"No. I stay in this room because I don't want to be movedout of it. It tires me too much."

"Does your father come and see you?" Mary ventured.

"Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn't wantto see me."

"Why?" Mary could not help asking again.

A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face.

"My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretchedto look at me. He thinks I don't know, but I've heardpeople talking. He almost hates me."

"He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary halfspeaking to herself.

"What garden?" the boy asked.

"Oh! just--just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered."Have you been here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes Ihave been taken to places at the seaside, but I won'tstay because people stare at me. I used to wear an ironthing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor camefrom London to see me and said it was stupid. He toldthem to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air.I hate fresh air and I don't want to go out."

"I didn't when first I came here," said Mary. "Why doyou keep looking at me like that?"

"Because of the dreams that are so real," he answeredrather fretfully. "Sometimes when I open my eyes I don'tbelieve I'm awake."

"We're both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the roomwith its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light."It looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night,and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us.We are wide awake."

"I don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly.

Mary thought of something all at once.

"If you don't like people to see you," she began,"do you want me to go away?"

He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave ita little pull.

"No," he said. "I should be sure you were a dream if you went.If you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk.I want to hear about you."

Mary put down her candle on the table near the bedand sat down on the cushioned stool. She did not wantto go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterioushidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.

"What do you want me to tell you?" she said.

He wanted to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite;he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wantedto know what she had been doing; if she disliked the mooras he disliked it; where she had lived before she cameto Yorkshire. She answered all these questions and manymore and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He madeher tell him a great deal about India and about her voyageacross the ocean. She found out that because he had beenan invalid he had not learned things as other children had.One of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quitelittle and he was always reading and looking at picturesin splendid books.

Though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he wasgiven all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with.He never seemed to have been amused, however. He could haveanything he asked for and was never made to do anything he didnot like to do. "Everyone is obliged to do what pleases me,"he said indifferently. "It makes me ill to be angry.No one believes I shall live to grow up."

He said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that ithad ceased to matter to him at all. He seemed to likethe sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking helistened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice shewondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze.But at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I am ten," answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment,"and so are you."

"How do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice.

"Because when you were born the garden door was lockedand the key was buried. And it has been locked for ten years."

Colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.

"What garden door was locked? Who did it? Where wasthe key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenlyvery much interested.

"It--it was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously."He locked the door. No one--no one knew where he buriedthe key." "What sort of a garden is it?" Colin persisted eagerly.

"No one has been allowed to go into it for ten years,"was Mary's careful answer.

But it was too late to be careful. He was too muchlike herself. He too had had nothing to think aboutand the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as ithad attracted her. He asked question after question.Where was it? Had she never looked for the door? Had shenever asked the gardeners?

"They won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think theyhave been told not to answer questions."

"I would make them," said Colin.

"Could you?" Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened.If he could make people answer questions, who knew whatmight happen!

"Everyone is obliged to please me. I told you that,"he said. "If I were to live, this place would sometimebelong to me. They all know that. I would make themtell me."

Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled,but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boyhad been. He thought that the whole world belonged to him.How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living.

"Do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly becauseshe was curious and partly in hope of making him forgetthe garden.

"I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferentlyas he had spoken before. "Ever since I remember anythingI have heard people say I shan't. At first they thoughtI was too little to understand and now they think Idon't hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin.He is quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaitewhen my father is dead. I should think he wouldn't wantme to live."

"Do you want to live?" inquired Mary.

"No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But Idon't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and thinkabout it until I cry and cry."

"I have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but Idid not know who it was. Were you crying about that?"She did so want him to forget the garden.

"I dare say," he answered. "Let us talk about something else.Talk about that garden. Don't you want to see it?"

"Yes," answered Mary, in quite a low voice.

"I do," he went on persistently. "I don't think I ever reallywanted to see anything before, but I want to see that garden.I want the key dug up. I want the door unlocked.I would let them take me there in my chair. That wouldbe getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door."

He had become quite excited and his strange eyes beganto shine like stars and looked more immense than ever.

"They have to please me," he said. "I will make themtake me there and I will let you go, too."

Mary's hands clutched each other. Everything wouldbe spoiled--everything! Dickon would never come back.She would never again feel like a missel thrush with asafe-hidden nest.

"Oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do that!" she cried out.

He stared as if he thought she had gone crazy!

"Why?" he exclaimed. "You said you wanted to see it."

"I do," she answered almost with a sob in her throat,"but if you make them open the door and take you in likethat it will never be a secret again."

He leaned still farther forward.

"A secret," he said. "What do you mean? Tell me."

Mary's words almost tumbled over one another.

"You see--you see," she panted, "if no one knows butourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere underthe ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if wecould slip through it together and shut it behind us,and no one knew any one was inside and we called it ourgarden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushesand it was our nest, and if we played there almost everyday and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive--"

"Is it dead?" he interrupted her.

"It soon will be if no one cares for it," she went on."The bulbs will live but the roses--"

He stopped her again as excited as she was herself.

"What are bulbs?" he put in quickly.

"They are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops. They areworking in the earth now--pushing up pale green pointsbecause the spring is coming."

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? Youdon't see it in rooms if you are ill."

"It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain fallingon the sunshine, and things pushing up and working underthe earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a secret and wecould get into it we could watch the things grow biggerevery day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you.see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if itwas a secret?"

He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an oddexpression on his face.

"I never had a secret," he said, "except that one aboutnot living to grow up. They don't know I know that,so it is a sort of secret. But I like this kind better."

"If you won't make them take you to the garden," pleaded Mary,"perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to getin sometime. And then--if the doctor wants you to go outin your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do,perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy who would push you,and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden."

"I should--like--that," he said very slowly, his eyeslooking dreamy. "I should like that. I should not mindfresh air in a secret garden."

Mary began to recover her breath and feel safer becausethe idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him.She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and couldmake him see the garden in his mind as she had seen ithe would like it so much that he could not bear to thinkthat everybody might tramp in to it when they chose.

"I'll tell you what I think it would be like, if we couldgo into it," she said. "It has been shut up so longthings have grown into a tangle perhaps."

He lay quite still and listened while she went on talkingabout the roses which might have clambered from treeto tree and hung down--about the many birds which mighthave built their nests there because it was so safe.And then she told him about the robin and Ben Weatherstaff,and there was so much to tell about the robin and itwas so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceasedto be afraid. The robin pleased him so much that hesmiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at firstMary had thought that he was even plainer than herself,with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair.

"I did not know birds could be like that," he said."But if you stay in a room you never see things.What a lot of things you know. I feel as if you had beeninside that garden."

She did not know what to say, so she did not say anything.He evidently did not expect an answer and the next momenthe gave her a surprise.

"I am going to let you look at something," he said."Do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on thewall over the mantel-piece?"

Mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it.It was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemedto be some picture.

"Yes," she answered.

"There is a cord hanging from it," said Colin."Go and pull it."

Mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord.When she pulled it the silk curtain ran back onrings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture.It was the picture of a girl with a laughing face.She had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay,lovely eyes were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones,agate gray and looking twice as big as they really werebecause of the black lashes all round them.

"She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don'tsee why she died. Sometimes I hate her for doing it."

"How queer!" said Mary.

"If she had lived I believe I should not have been ill always,"he grumbled. "I dare say I should have lived, too.And my father would not have hated to look at me. I daresay I should have had a strong back. Draw the curtain again."

Mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool.

"She is much prettier than you," she said, "but her eyesare just like yours--at least they are the same shapeand color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?"

He moved uncomfortably.

"I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like tosee her looking at me. She smiles too much when I am illand miserable. Besides, she is mine and I don't want everyoneto see her." There were a few moments of silence and then Maryspoke.

"What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that Ihad been here?" she inquired.

"She would do as I told her to do," he answered."And I should tell her that I wanted you to come hereand talk to me every day. I am glad you came."

"So am I," said Mary. "I will come as often as I can,but"--she hesitated--"I shall have to look every dayfor the garden door."

"Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me aboutit afterward."

He lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before,and then he spoke again.

"I think you shall be a secret, too," he said. "I will nottell them until they find out. I can always send the nurseout of the room and say that I want to be by myself.Do you know Martha?"

"Yes, I know her very well," said Mary. "She waits on me."

He nodded his head toward the outer corridor.

"She is the one who is asleep in the other room.The nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with hersister and she always makes Martha attend to me when shewants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to come here."

Then Mary understood Martha's troubled look when shehad asked questions about the crying.

"Martha knew about you all the time?" she said.

"Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse likes to getaway from me and then Martha comes."

"I have been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I goaway now? Your eyes look sleepy."

"I wish I could go to sleep before you leave me,"he said rather shyly.

"Shut your eyes," said Mary, drawing her footstool closer,"and I will do what my Ayah used to do in India.I will pat your hand and stroke it and sing somethingquite low."

"I should like that perhaps," he said drowsily.

Somehow she was sorry for him and did not want himto lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and beganto stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low littlechanting song in Hindustani.

"That is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she wenton chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him againhis black lashes were lying close against his cheeks,for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So shegot up softly, took her candle and crept away withoutmaking a sound.

CHAPTER XIV

A YOUNG RAJAH

The moor was hidden in mist when the morning came,and the rain had not stopped pouring down. There couldbe no going out of doors. Martha was so busy that Maryhad no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoonshe asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery.She came bringing the stocking she was always knittingwhen she was doing nothing else.

"What's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as theysat down. "Tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say."

"I have. I have found out what the crying was,"said Mary.

Martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazedat her with startled eyes.

"Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!"

"I heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I gotup and went to see where it came from. It was Colin.I found him."

"He wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked him if I should goaway and he made me stay. He asked me questions and Isat on a big footstool and talked to him about Indiaand about the robin and gardens. He wouldn't let me go.He let me see his mother's picture. Before I left him Isang him to sleep."

Martha fairly gasped with amazement.

"I can scarcely believe thee!" she protested."It's as if tha'd walked straight into a lion's den.If he'd been like he is most times he'd have throwed himselfinto one of his tantrums and roused th' house. He won'tlet strangers look at him."

"He let me look at him. I looked at him all the timeand he looked at me. We stared!" said Mary.

"He says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants me to come and talkto him every day. And you are to tell me when he wants me."

"Me!" said Martha; "I shall lose my place--I shall for sure!"

"You can't if you are doing what he wants you to doand everybody is ordered to obey him," Mary argued.

"Does tha' mean to say," cried Martha with wide open eyes,"that he was nice to thee!"

"I think he almost liked me," Mary answered.

"Then tha' must have bewitched him!" decided Martha,drawing a long breath.

"Do you mean Magic?" inquired Mary. "I've heard about Magicin India, but I can't make it. I just went into his roomand I was so surprised to see him I stood and stared.And then he turned round and stared at me. And he thoughtI was a ghost or a dream and I thought perhaps he was.And it was so queer being there alone together in themiddle of the night and not knowing about each other.And we began to ask each other questions. And when I askedhim if I must go away he said I must not."

"Th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped Martha.

"What is the matter with him?" asked Mary.

"Nobody knows for sure and certain," said Martha."Mr. Craven went off his head like when he was born.Th' doctors thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum.It was because Mrs. Craven died like I told you.He wouldn't set eyes on th' baby. He just raved and saidit'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die."

"Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't looklike one."

"He isn't yet," said Martha. "But he began all wrong.Mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th'house to set any child wrong. They was afraid his backwas weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin'him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. Once they madehim wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill.Then a big doctor came to see him an' made them take it off.He talked to th' other doctor quite rough--in a polite way.He said there'd been too much medicine and too much lettin'him have his own way."

"I think he's a very spoiled boy," said Mary.

"He's th' worst young nowt as ever was!" said Martha."I won't say as he hasn't been ill a good bit.He's had coughs an' colds that's nearly killed him twoor three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an' once hehad typhoid. Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fright then.He'd been out of his head an' she was talkin' to th'nurse, thinkin' he didn't know nothin', an' she said,`He'll die this time sure enough, an' best thing for him an'for everybody.' An' she looked at him an' there hewas with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensibleas she was herself. She didn't know wha'd happen but hejust stared at her an' says, `You give me some water an'stop talkin'.'"

"Do you think he will die?" asked Mary.

"Mother says there's no reason why any child should livethat gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lieon his back an' read picture-books an' take medicine.He's weak and hates th' trouble o' bein' taken out o'doors, an' he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill."

Mary sat and looked at the fire. "I wonder," she said slowly,"if it would not do him good to go out into a gardenand watch things growing. It did me good."

"One of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was onetime they took him out where the roses is by the fountain.He'd been readin' in a paper about people gettin'somethin' he called `rose cold' an' he began to sneeze an'said he'd got it an' then a new gardener as didn'tknow th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious.He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'dlooked at him because he was going to be a hunchback.He cried himself into a fever an' was ill all night."

"If he ever gets angry at me, I'll never go and seehim again," said Mary.

"He'll have thee if he wants thee," said Martha."Tha' may as well know that at th' start."

Very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled upher knitting.

"I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit,"she said. "I hope he's in a good temper."

She was out of the room about ten minutes and then shecame back with a puzzled expression.

"Well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on hissofa with his picture-books. He's told the nurse to stayaway until six o'clock. I'm to wait in the next room.Th' minute she was gone he called me to him an' says, `I wantMary Lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you'renot to tell any one.' You'd better go as quick as you can."

Mary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not wantto see Colin as much as she wanted to see Dickon;but she wanted to see him very much.

There was a bright fire on the hearth when she enteredhis room, and in the daylight she saw it was a verybeautiful room indeed. There were rich colors in therugs and hangings and pictures and books on the wallswhich made it look glowing and comfortable even in spiteof the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked ratherlike a picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvetdressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion.He had a red spot on each cheek.

"Come in," he said. "I've been thinking about youall morning."

"I've been thinking about you, too," answered Mary."You don't know how frightened Martha is. She saysMrs. Medlock will think she told me about you and then shewill be sent away."

He frowned.

"Go and tell her to come here," he said. "She isin the next room."

Mary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shakingin her shoes. Colin was still frowning.

"Have you to do what I please or have you not?" he demanded.

"I have to do what you please, sir," Martha faltered,turning quite red.

"Has Medlock to do what I please?"

"Everybody has, sir," said Martha.

"Well, then, if I order you to bring Miss Mary to me,how can Medlock send you away if she finds it out?"

"Please don't let her, sir," pleaded Martha.

"I'll send her away if she dares to say a word about sucha thing," said Master Craven grandly. "She wouldn'tlike that, I can tell you."

"Thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I want to do my duty, sir."

"What I want is your duty" said Colin more grandly still."I'll take care of you. Now go away."

When the door closed behind Martha, Colin found MistressMary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he asked her."What are you thinking about?"

"I am thinking about two things."

"What are they? Sit down and tell me."

"This is the first one," said Mary, seating herself on thebig stool. "Once in India I saw a boy who was a Rajah.He had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him.He spoke to his people just as you spoke to Martha.Everybody had to do everything he told them--in a minute.I think they would have been killed if they hadn't."

"I shall make you tell me about Rajahs presently," he said,"but first tell me what the second thing was."

"I was thinking," said Mary, "how different you arefrom Dickon."

"Who is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer name!"

She might as well tell him, she thought she could talkabout Dickon without mentioning the secret garden. She hadliked to hear Martha talk about him. Besides, she longedto talk about him. It would seem to bring him nearer.

"He is Martha's brother. He is twelve years old,"she explained. "He is not like any one else in the world.He can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as thenatives in India charm snakes. He plays a very soft tuneon a pipe and they come and listen."

There were some big books on a table at his side and hedragged one suddenly toward him. "There is a pictureof a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "Come and lookat it"

The book was a beautiful one with superb coloredillustrations and he turned to one of them.

"Can he do that?" he asked eagerly.

"He played on his pipe and they listened," Mary explained."But he doesn't call it Magic. He says it's because helives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. He sayshe feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself,he likes them so. I think he asked the robin questions.It seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps."

Colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew largerand larger and the spots on his cheeks burned.

"Tell me some more about him," he said.

"He knows all about eggs and nests," Mary went on."And he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live.He keeps them secret so that other boys won't find their holesand frighten them. He knows about everything that growsor lives on the moor."

"Does he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can hewhen it's such a great, bare, dreary place?"

"It's the most beautiful place," protested Mary."Thousands of lovely things grow on it and there arethousands of little creatures all busy building nestsand making holes and burrows and chippering or singingor squeaking to each other. They are so busy and havingsuch fun under the earth or in the trees or heather.It's their world."

"How do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on hiselbow to look at her.

"I have never been there once, really," said Marysuddenly remembering. "I only drove over it in the dark.I thought it was hideous. Martha told me about it firstand then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you feelas if you saw things and heard them and as if you werestanding in the heather with the sun shining and the gorsesmelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies."

"You never see anything if you are ill," saidColin restlessly. He looked like a person listeningto a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was.

"You can't if you stay in a room," said Mary.

"I couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone.

Mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold.

"You might--sometime."

He moved as if he were startled.

"Go on the moor! How could I? I am going to die.""How do you know?" said Mary unsympathetically.She didn't like the way he had of talking about dying.She did not feel very sympathetic. She felt rather as if healmost boasted about it.

"Oh, I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly."They are always whispering about it and thinkingI don't notice. They wish I would, too."

Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched herlips together.

"If they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Whowishes you would?"

"The servants--and of course Dr. Craven because he wouldget Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren'tsay so, but he always looks cheerful when I am worse.When I had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. I thinkmy father wishes it, too."

"I don't believe he does," said Mary quite obstinately.

That made Colin turn and look at her again.

"Don't you?" he said.

And then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as ifhe were thinking. And there was quite a long silence.Perhaps they were both of them thinking strange thingschildren do not usually think. "I like the grand doctorfrom London, because he made them take the iron thing off,"said Mary at last "Did he say you were going to die?"

"No.".

"What did he say?"

"He didn't whisper," Colin answered. "Perhaps he knew Ihated whispering. I heard him say one thing quite aloud.He said, 'The lad might live if he would make up his mindto it. Put him in the humor.' It sounded as if he wasin a temper."

"I'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps,"said Mary reflecting. She felt as if she would like thisthing to be settled one way or the other. "I believeDickon would. He's always talking about live things.He never talks about dead things or things that are ill.He's always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying--orlooking down at the earth to see something growing.He has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open withlooking about. And he laughs such a big laugh with his widemouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries."She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expressionquite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouthand wide open eyes.

"See here," she said. "Don't let us talk about dying;I don't like it. Let us talk about living. Let ustalk and talk about Dickon. And then we will look atyour pictures."

It was the best thing she could have said. To talk aboutDickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottageand the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillingsa week--and the children who got fat on the moor grasslike the wild ponies. And about Dickon's mother--andthe skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--andabout pale green points sticking up out of the black sod.And it was all so alive that Mary talked more than she hadever talked before--and Colin both talked and listened as hehad never done either before. And they both began to laughover nothings as children will when they are happy together.And they laughed so that in the end they were makingas much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthynatural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little,unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going todie.

They enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot thepictures and they forgot about the time. They had beenlaughing quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and his robin,and Colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgottenabout his weak back, when he suddenly remembered something."Do you know there is one thing we have never oncethought of," he said. "We are cousins."

It seemed so queer that they had talked so much and neverremembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever,because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything.And in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walkedDr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock.

Dr. Craven started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almostfell back because he had accidentally bumped against her.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock with her eyesalmost starting out of her head. "Good Lord!"

"What is this?" said Dr. Craven, coming forward."What does it mean?"

Then Mary was reminded of the boy Rajah again.Colin answered as if neither the doctor's alarm norMrs. Medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence.He was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderlycat and dog had walked into the room.

"This is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he said. "I askedher to come and talk to me. I like her. She must comeand talk to me whenever I send for her."

Dr. Craven turned reproachfully to Mrs. Medlock."Oh, sir" she panted. "I don't know how it's happened.There's not a servant on the place tha'd dare to talk--theyall have their orders."

"Nobody told her anything," said Colin. "She heardme crying and found me herself. I am glad she came.Don't be silly, Medlock."

Mary saw that Dr. Craven did not look pleased, but itwas quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient.He sat down by Colin and felt his pulse.

"I am afraid there has been too much excitement.Excitement is not good for you, my boy," he said.

"I should be excited if she kept away," answered Colin,his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling."I am better. She makes me better. The nurse must bring upher tea with mine. We will have tea together."

Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in atroubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done.

"He does look rather better, sir," ventured Mrs. Medlock."But"--thinking the matter over--"he looked better thismorning before she came into the room."

"She came into the room last night. She stayed with mea long time. She sang a Hindustani song to me and itmade me go to sleep," said Colin. "I was better when Iwakened up. I wanted my breakfast. I want my tea now.Tell nurse, Medlock."

Dr. Craven did not stay very long. He talked to the nursefor a few minutes when she came into the room and said a fewwords of warning to Colin. He must not talk too much;he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forgetthat he was very easily tired. Mary thought that thereseemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was notto forget.

"I want to forget it," he said at last. "She makes meforget it. That is why I want her."

Dr. Craven did not look happy when he left the room.He gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting onthe large stool. She had become a stiff, silent childagain as soon as he entered and he could not see whatthe attraction was. The boy actually did look brighter,however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went downthe corridor.

"They are always wanting me to eat things when I don'twant to," said Colin, as the nurse brought in the teaand put it on the table by the sofa. "Now, if you'lleat I will. Those muffins look so nice and hot.Tell me about Rajahs."

CHAPTER XV

NEST BUILDING

After another week of rain the high arch of blue skyappeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot.Though there had been no chance to see either the secretgarden or Dickon, Mistress Mary had enjoyed herselfvery much. The week had not seemed long. She had spenthours of every day with Colin in his room, talking aboutRajahs or gardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor.They had looked at the splendid books and pictures andsometimes Mary had read things to Colin, and sometimes hehad read a little to her. When he was amused and interestedshe thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all,except that his face was so colorless and he was alwayson the sofa.

"You are a sly young one to listen and get out of yourbed to go following things up like you did that night,"Mrs. Medlock said once. "But there's no saying it'snot been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. He's nothad a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends.The nurse was just going to give up the case because shewas so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind stayingnow you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little.

In her talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautiousabout the secret garden. There were certain things shewanted to find out from him, but she felt that she mustfind them out without asking him direct questions.In the first place, as she began to like to be with him,she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy youcould tell a secret to. He was not in the least like Dickon,but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a gardenno one knew anything about that she thought perhaps hecould be trusted. But she had not known him long enoughto be sure. The second thing she wanted to find out wasthis: If he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn'tit be possible to take him to the garden without havingany one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he musthave fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mindfresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a greatdeal of fresh air and knew Dickon and the robin and sawthings growing he might not think so much about dying.Mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when shehad realized that she looked quite a different creaturefrom the child she had seen when she arrived from India.This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a changein her.

"Th' air from th' moor has done thee good already,"she had said. "Tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt notnigh so scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha'head so flat. It's got some life in it so as it sticksout a bit."

"It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it upa little round her face. "Tha'rt not half so ugly whenit's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks."

If gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps theywould be good for Colin. But then, if he hated peopleto look at him, perhaps he would not like to see Dickon.

"Why does it make you angry when you are looked at?"she inquired one day.

"I always hated it," he answered, "even when I was very little.Then when they took me to the seaside and I used to liein my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies wouldstop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin towhisper and I knew then they were saying I shouldn't liveto grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeksand say `Poor child!' Once when a lady did that I screamedout loud and bit her hand. She was so frightened she ran away."

"She thought you had gone mad like a dog," said Mary,not at all admiringly.

"I don't care what she thought," said Colin, frowning.

"I wonder why you didn't scream and bite me when I cameinto your room?" said Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.

"I thought you were a ghost or a dream," he said."You can't bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream theydon't care."

"Would you hate it if--if a boy looked at you?"Mary asked uncertainly.

He lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.

"There's one boy," he said quite slowly, as if he were thinkingover every word, "there's one boy I believe I shouldn't mind.It's that boy who knows where the foxes live--Dickon."

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said Mary.

"The birds don't and other animals," he said, still thinkingit over, "perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sortof animal charmer and I am a boy animal."

Then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it endedin their both laughing a great deal and finding the ideaof a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed.

What Mary felt afterward was that she need not fearabout Dickon.

On that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakenedvery early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays throughthe blinds and there was something so joyous in the sightof it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window.She drew up the blinds and opened the window itselfand a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her.The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if somethingMagic had happened to it. There were tender littlefluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scoresof birds were beginning to tune up for a concert.Mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun.

"It's warm--warm!" she said. "It will make the greenpoints push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbsand roots work and struggle with all their might underthe earth."

She kneeled down and leaned out of the window as faras she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the airuntil she laughed because she remembered what Dickon'smother had said about the end of his nose quiveringlike a rabbit's. "It must be very early," she said."The little clouds are all pink and I've never seenthe sky look like this. No one is up. I don't even hearthe stable boys."

A sudden thought made her scramble to her feet.

"I can't wait! I am going to see the garden!"

She had learned to dress herself by this time and she puton her clothes in five minutes. She knew a small side doorwhich she could unbolt herself and she flew downstairsin her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall.She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the doorwas open she sprang across the step with one bound,and there she was standing on the grass, which seemedto have turned green, and with the sun pouring down onher and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting andtwittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the skyand it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and floodedwith springtime light that she felt as if she must fluteand sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robinsand skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran aroundthe shrubs and paths towards the secret garden.

"It is all different already," she said. "The grass isgreener and things are sticking up everywhere and thingsare uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing.This afternoon I am sure Dickon will come."

The long warm rain had done strange things to theherbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall.There were things sprouting and pushing out from theroots of clumps of plants and there were actually hereand there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurlingamong the stems of crocuses. Six months before MistressMary would not have seen how the world was waking up,but now she missed nothing.

When she had reached the place where the door hid itselfunder the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound.It was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the topof the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a bigglossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her verywisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so close beforeand he made her a little nervous, but the next moment hespread his wings and flapped away across the garden.She hoped he was not going to stay inside and shepushed the door open wondering if he would. When shegot fairly into the garden she saw that he probablydid intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarfapple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a littlereddish animal with a Bushy tail, and both of them werewatching the stooping body and rust-red head of Dickon,who was kneeling on the grass working hard.

Mary flew across the grass to him.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out. "How could you gethere so early! How could you! The sun has only just got up!"

He got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled;his eyes like a bit of the sky.

"Eh!" he said. "I was up long before him. How could Ihave stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again thismornin', it has. An' it's workin' an' hummin' an' scratchin'an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents,till you've got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on your back.When th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an'I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I run like madmyself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I come straight here.I couldn't have stayed away. Why, th' garden was lyin'here waitin'!"

Mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if shehad been running herself.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I canscarcely breathe!"

Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailedanimal rose from its place under the tree and came to him,and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branchand settled quietly on his shoulder.

"This is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the littlereddish animal's head. "It's named Captain. An' thishere's Soot. Soot he flew across th' moor with me an'Captain he run same as if th' hounds had been after him.They both felt same as I did."

Neither of the creatures looked as if he were the leastafraid of Mary. When Dickon began to walk about,Soot stayed on his shoulder and Captain trotted quietlyclose to his side.

"See here!" said Dickon. "See how these haspushed up, an' these an' these! An' Eh! Look at these here!"

He threw himself upon his knees and Mary wentdown beside him. They had come upon a whole clumpof crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold.Mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them.

"You never kiss a person in that way," she said when shelifted her head. "Flowers are so different."

He looked puzzled but smiled.

"Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that waywhen I come in from th' moor after a day's roamin' an'she stood there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so glad an'comfortable." They ran from one part of the garden toanother and found so many wonders that they were obligedto remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low.He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches whichhad seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new greenpoints pushing through the mould. They put their eageryoung noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmedspringtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed lowwith rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbledas Dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his.

There was every joy on earth in the secret gardenthat morning, and in the midst of them came a delightmore delightful than all, because it was more wonderful.Swiftly something flew across the wall and darted throughthe trees to a close grown corner, a little flare ofred-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak.Dickon stood quite still and put his hand on Mary almostas if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church.

"We munnot stir," he whispered in broad Yorkshire."We munnot scarce breathe. I knowed he was mate-huntin'when I seed him last. It's Ben Weatherstaff's robin.He's buildin' his nest. He'll stay here if us don't fight him."They settled down softly upon the grass and sat therewithout moving.

"Us mustn't seem as if us was watchin' him too close,"said Dickon. "He'd be out with us for good if he got th'notion us was interferin' now. He'll be a good bit differenttill all this is over. He's settin' up housekeepin'.He'll be shyer an' readier to take things ill.He's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. Us mustkeep still a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an'trees an' bushes. Then when he's got used to seein'us I'll chirp a bit an' he'll know us'll not be inhis way."

Mistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickonseemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes.But he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplestand most natural thing in the world, and she felt it mustbe quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a fewminutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for himto quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves.But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spokedropped his voice to such a softness that it was curiousthat she could hear him, but she could.

"It's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin'is," he said. "I warrant it's been goin' on in th'same way every year since th' world was begun.They've got their way o' thinkin' and doin' things an'a body had better not meddle. You can lose a friendin springtime easier than any other season if you're toocurious."

"If we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary saidas softly as possible. "We must talk of something else.There is something I want to tell you."

"He'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else,"said Dickon. "What is it tha's got to tell me?"

"Well--do you know about Colin?" she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her.

"What does tha' know about him?" he asked.

"I've seen him. I have been to talk to him every daythis week. He wants me to come. He says I'm making himforget about being ill and dying," answered Mary.

Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprisedied away from his round face.

"I am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm right down glad.It makes me easier. I knowed I must say nothin' about him an'I don't like havin' to hide things."

"It was just like her, what she said," he answered."She give my head a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says,'Eh, lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha' likes.I've knowed thee twelve year'.'"

"How did you know about Colin?" asked Mary.

"Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there wasa little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowedMester Craven didn't like him to be talked about. Folks issorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a prettyyoung lady an' they was so fond of each other. Mrs. Medlockstops in our cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an'she doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children,because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty.How did tha' find out about him? Martha was in finetrouble th' last time she came home. She said tha'dheard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an'she didn't know what to say."

Mary told him her story about the midnight wutheringof the wind which had wakened her and about the faintfar-off sounds of the complaining voice which had ledher down the dark corridors with her candle and hadended with her opening of the door of the dimly lightedroom with the carven four-posted bed in the corner.When she described the small ivory-white face and thestrange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his head.

"Them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers wasalways laughin', they say," he said. "They say asMr. Craven can't bear to see him when he's awake an'it's because his eyes is so like his mother's an'yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face."

"Do you think he wants to die?" whispered Mary.

"No, but he wishes he'd never been born. Mother shesays that's th' worst thing on earth for a child.Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester Cravenhe'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor ladbut he'd like to forget as he's on earth. For one thing,he's afraid he'll look at him some day and find he'sgrowed hunchback."

"Colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up,"said Mary. "He says he's always thinking that if heshould feel a lump coming he should go crazy and screamhimself to death."

"Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that,"said Dickon. "No lad could get well as thought themsort o' things."

The fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up toask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbedhis neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence.Presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden.

"When first we got in here," he said, "it seemed likeeverything was gray. Look round now and tell me if tha'doesn't see a difference."

Mary looked and caught her breath a little.

"Why!" she cried, "the gray wall is changing.It is as if a green mist were creeping over it.It's almost like a green gauze veil."

"Aye," said Dickon. "An' it'll be greener and greener till th'gray's all gone. Can tha' guess what I was thinkin'?"

"I know it was something nice," said Mary eagerly."I believe it was something about Colin."

"I was thinkin' that if he was out here he wouldn't be watchin'for lumps to grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for budsto break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier,"explained Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could everget him in th' humor to come out here an' lie under th'trees in his carriage."

"I've been wondering that myself. I've thought of italmost every time I've talked to him," said Mary."I've wondered if he could keep a secret and I've wonderedif we could bring him here without any one seeing us.I thought perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctorsaid he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take himout no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for other peopleand perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us.He could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn'tfind out."

Dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched Captain's back.

"It'd be good for him, I'll warrant," he said."Us'd not be thinkin' he'd better never been born.Us'd be just two children watchin' a garden grow, an'he'd be another. Two lads an' a little lass just lookin'on at th' springtime. I warrant it'd be better thandoctor's stuff."

"He's been lying in his room so long and he's alwaysbeen so afraid of his back that it has made him queer,"said Mary. "He knows a good many things out of booksbut he doesn't know anything else. He says he has beentoo ill to notice things and he hates going out of doorsand hates gardens and gardeners. But he likes to hearabout this garden because it is a secret. I daren't tellhim much but he said he wanted to see it."

"Us'll have him out here sometime for sure," said Dickon."I could push his carriage well enough. Has tha'noticed how th' robin an' his mate has been workin'while we've been sittin' here? Look at him perched on thatbranch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he'sgot in his beak."

He made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turnedhis head and looked at him inquiringly, still holdinghis twig. Dickon spoke to him as Ben Weatherstaff did,but Dickon's tone was one of friendly advice.

"Wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'll beall right. Tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha'came out o' th' egg. Get on with thee, lad. Tha'st gotno time to lose."

"Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!" Mary said,laughing delightedly. "Ben Weatherstaff scolds himand makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks asif he understood every word, and I know he likes it.Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would ratherhave stones thrown at him than not be noticed."

Dickon laughed too and went on talking.

"Tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he said to the robin."Us is near bein' wild things ourselves. Us is nest-buildin'too, bless thee. Look out tha' doesn't tell on us."

And though the robin did not answer, because his beakwas occupied, Mary knew that when he flew away with histwig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of hisdew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secretfor the world.

CHAPTER XVI

"I WON'T!" SAID MARY

They found a great deal to do that morning and Marywas late in returning to the house and was also in sucha hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgotColin until the last moment.

"Tell Colin that I can't come and see him yet," she saidto Martha. "I'm very busy in the garden."

Martha looked rather frightened.

"Eh! Miss Mary," she said, "it may put him all outof humor when I tell him that."

But Mary was not as afraid of him as other people wereand she was not a self-sacrificing person.

The afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morninghad been. Already nearly all the weeds were clearedout of the garden and most of the roses and trees hadbeen pruned or dug about. Dickon had brought a spadeof his own and he had taught Mary to use all her tools,so that by this time it was plain that though the lovelywild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden"it would be a wilderness of growing things before thespringtime was over.

"There'll be apple blossoms an' cherry blossoms overhead,"Dickon said, working away with all his might."An' there'll be peach an' plum trees in bloom against th'walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowers."

The little fox and the rook were as happy and busyas they were, and the robin and his mate flewbackward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning.Sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared awayover the tree-tops in the park. Each time he came backand perched near Dickon and cawed several times as if hewere relating his adventures, and Dickon talked to himjust as he had talked to the robin. Once when Dickonwas so busy that he did not answer him at first, Soot flewon to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with hislarge beak. When Mary wanted to rest a little Dickonsat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipeout of his pocket and played the soft strange little notesand two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened.

"Tha's a good bit stronger than tha' was," Dickon said,looking at her as she was digging. "Tha's beginningto look different, for sure."